


Cargo

by AJuicyContradiction



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Alternate Universe-Zombie Apocalypse, Baby Hamish, Parentlock, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJuicyContradiction/pseuds/AJuicyContradiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it's the last thing he does, John will make sure his son survives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cargo

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the short film Cargo which was a finalist in the 2013 Tropfest and is linked below
> 
> I highly recommend you watch before reading so that the chapter makes more sense and also because it's really fantastic.

[Cargo](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gryenlQKTbE)\- the short film

 

John woke to the snapping of tightly woven cloth and tilted vision. He registered the tree branch sprouted from the windshield and the wisps of smoke trailing from beneath the hood of their rental car, but his head hurts and his vision is still blurred so he shakes off the pounding in his head and reaches for Sherlock’s hand when Sherlock’s hand grabbed his wrist. He looked up, alert now, heart racing, to see that his husband’s jaw is slack , eyes clouded and skin a pale grey. The grip on his wrist tightened and pulled him toward the driver’s seat.

“Sherlock,” he exclaimed, John pulled his wrist free and Sherlock groaned, almost wistfully, and reached for him again. John’s hand immediately shot for the door handle, the other fumbling with the button that would undo his seat-belt. He tumbled out of the car and looked back inside, the creature that took his husband’s place lunged against the belt and wailed.

The sound ripping from his throat is neither human nor distinctly animal but screams in baritone notes of a primal hunger unsated.

John’s eye fell to the distinct bite mark on Sherlocks right forearm.

He lets his head drop to shaking hands because dammit if he’d just noticed sooner, if he’d gone with him to the morgue, if he’d kept him from working on the case he might not have lost him again. He remembers the panic that Sherlock came home in, fearing an exponential increase in the infected because, “John you’re a doctor, think about how quickly a highly contagious disease can spread when the host shows no symptoms for up to 48 hours and then pack yourself a bag.”

So they’d packed and rented a car with plans to wait out this apocalypse at the old Holmes manner far in the country. Away from people and pathogens and the walking dead.

His head shot up when the snapping of the seat-belt was traded for high pitched cries. John sees outstretched arms and his son wriggling in his car seat that the creature almost had a firm grasp on. John jumped up and all but fell into the car door nearest him, yanking it open and lunging forward to unbuckle his sons seat and drag it out of the car with a deftness that surely would have impressed his husband if he hadn’t been the primary source of danger to their only son.

Hamish wailed and clung to his father violently, pushing away from the car even when John bent to retrieve his pack from the floor of the back seat. “Shhh, you’re alright, ‘Mish, we’re alright. Daddy’s sick, but he still loves you, okay? We’re alright.” John felt the nod in the crook of his neck, he bounced the boy on his hip while he closed the car doors.

When the wails had been reduced to sniffles, he patted his son on the back. He saw the blood first, the nail marks that trailed around his left forearm. He knew what this meant right away but he didn’t have time to come to terms with it immediately. He had to get Hamish out. “We have to go now, Hamish, say goodbye to Dad,” he hoped that he sounded confident instead of terrified and that his tone offered an air of safety instead of projecting his breaking heart. “Dad not come?” he asked, eyes still puffy as he turned to look at his father’s moving corpse.

It wailed again and Hamish cringed, tears tracked down his face. “Get better?” “No Hamish, Daddy’s not going to get better,” he choked, “it’s just you and Papa, okay?”

The boy nodded and turned to face the car, he waved, “Ba Dad.”

 

They walk until dark and Hamish wants to stop and camp like they did one holiday in Sussex, but John knows that he’s got 50 hours maximum to make competent decisions and less than 60 before he turns completely.

He looked down at Hamish strapped to his front, only slightly too big for the carrier he and Sherlock bought when they first adopted him. The same one that held Hamish to Sherlock’s chest the first time John went back to work after the adoption, the same one that brought them to parks and restaurants and all manner of other places that probably didn’t exist anymore.

John’s eyes track down to his arm, the wound circled and the hourly notes made in small bullets with a half-dry sharpie, an arrow above them pointed to his right arm which listed simple facts he knew he’d need but wouldn’t remember in case the dementia set in before he found someone to take care of Hamish.

He keeps walking all night.

 

Thankfully they don’t run into trouble, they were fairly close to the old Holmes manor, half a day’s drive, so perhaps two days walk. Molly and Lestrade were supposed to meet them there so, for now, John plans to follow the road from a safe distance into the woods and hand over Hamish before any damage can be done.

They stop several times that day, Hamish is exhausted already, he needs his nappy changed, he’s hungry. John finds that he’s growing increasingly more irritable and marks this as his first symptom at hour 25. They’re still in the woods when he marks hour 30, noting mild confusion b

ut not much more. He doesn’t see Holmes manner and he fears that he won’t make it enough that after Hamish falls asleep he feverishly sketches a diagram beneath the list on his right arm.

By hour 45 he can’t remember who his son means when he cries for, “Da,” and the black markings that indicate the list on his right arm isn’t helpful. He still remembers well enough that Hamish is his son so he reassures and comforts him the best he can since he moved the carrier to his back- he’s afraid to take it off.

At hour 48 Hamish is asleep. He checks once more before kneeling to scoop deer entrails into a thin plastic bag he found. John ties the bag to his belt and keeps walking.

At hour 55 he hears crying from behind him and his skin has gone off, he knows because the black marks on his left arm point to a list on his right that says when he notices gray skin he should mimic the diagram below. He smiles and swells with pride because he knows he can manage.

\-----

"James there's‐ what is that?"

"It's a corpse, Ruby,” she heard the rifle cock and the faint ding of a shed shell through the walkie. Ruby picked up her boyfriend’s rifle and peered through the scope. She was sure it was a corpse, but there was a stick jutting out from just above its shoulder and at the end of the stick a plastic bag dripping with blood and god only knows what else.

The corpse turned sideways.

There was a kid on its back.

She scrambled for the walkie, "James, stop there's‐" The shot rang out and the corpse fell. She bolted down from the guard tower and out to the body. She heard the whimpering first and pulled the stick out from its place twisted on one of the straps of the carrier and turned the body over with it. The toddler squirmed helplessly against its restraints, and clutched tight to a small green blanket.

"It's alright, honey, my name is Ruby, I want to help." She snapped the buckle free just as James and Sam came skidding up to her.

"Are you alright‐"

"Are you insane‐"

"Is that a baby?"

"You were supposed to stay at the watch post‐" Sam hissed.

"Let me see him," James insisted, taking the wriggling boy. Checking his arms and legs for injury, his eyes for the cloudy irises that marked infected individuals up to a 30 hours before they turned.

He lifted his shirt to see black markings. "Guys look at this."

" _ **Hi, my name is Hamish Hudson Watson‐ Holmes and this is my papa, Dr. John Watson. My Daddy Sherlock Holmes was infected but he loved me very much and tried to help me and papa get to our house 16km, northwest which is well stocked and has lots of useable farmland which Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly will be more than happy to share. Tell them my daddies say hi. I have lots of formula and nappies in the bag behind me and there will be even more at the house**_."

"Shit they have a safe house,” Ruby blurted excitedly.

James looked up, "language?"

"A stocked safe house-”

"Wait there's more," James said after turning the boy over, " _my birthday is April 5th, 2012 and I want to remember my daddies on their anniversary June 19, 2012." Make sure that I know how much my daddies love me, and that they're together and safe now. Thank you for taking care of me_."

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a 3 part mini-series type thing? I'll be updating weekly if I can.
> 
> This chapter covers what happens in the short film.
> 
> The second part will be from Sherlock's point of view and lead up to the car accident.
> 
> The third part will be a sequel to the first.


End file.
